


Bring You Home

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Finale, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Finale, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: When the war is over, when the bodies are buried in dust, Sansa and Jon are all that's left.





	Bring You Home

It’s easier than she thought it would be, falling into Jon's arms, into his bed.

After-all, they’ve never been here before and it should be awkward. They shouldn’t fit together the way they do, like two pieces of a broken puzzle, like every part of her was made to fit and surround him just like this. 

 _Jon Snow,_ he carves his name into her.

Not really a Stark, not really a Targaryen.

Rootless, but hers.

Of course, that’s not to say she’s never thought about it.

She thought about it when they were children. When his baby fat started to melt away into tanned skin that stretched over lean muscle. When his jaw started to sharpen and he became stronger, hardened by the world and rougher around the edges.

Perhaps a small part of her always knew, deep down, that he wasn’t her brother.

Bran and Rickon ( _her heart lurches at the name_ ) were too young, but Robb ( _another lurch_ ) filled out his furs far quicker than Jon.

Yet, she never felt for Robb the way she felt for him.

She thought about it again when they were parted. She thought about how soft his hands always were, how she marvelled at that when she’d spent so many years watching him slice the air with his sword and pluck at the string of a bow.

She wondered whether the years beyond the wall had hardened them, whether they would still be as soft when he held her as she cried over Joffrey’s cruelty or losing the mother that despised him or the brother he loved as much as she did.

Jon’s hands are still soft. They’re trailing across her body now, deft fingers dipping between her thighs and playing her like an instrument he mastered years ago. She’s seen them plunge swords into the guts of their enemies and she’s seen them tremble as they held the bodies of the ones they loved, yet still those hands are so _damned_ soft.

“Tighter,” she whispers, though he’s practically melting on top and inside her, “Hold me tighter.”

Jon grunts his approval. He never says much, but he always says _some_ and that has to mean something.

Maybe it won’t be forever, but for now, it’s easy and it’s good.

He needs her, she needs him.

She’s been broken for so long, the simplicity of it is enough for Sansa.

 

 

She'd found him a few hours after he killed Daenerys.

Peacefully entwined bodies, her a powder white angel, him so still he might as well have joined her. Sansa’s heart had sunk and for a moment, a sick, horrible moment, she thought she’d lost him too.

“Jon,” she croaked, voice dry from misuse, “What happened?”

He’d taken a moment to look up at her, but when he did, his eyes were black and the dagger between them, buried in the Queen’s chest, was explanation enough. The atmosphere blistered and Sansa’s stomach dropped.

She _had_ lost him.

There would be no coming back from this.

In the distance, she heard a dragon’s mournful cry.

“Jon,” she’d dropped to her knees, “We have to go.”

Jon shook his head, eyes for his Queen.

“I loved her,” he said simply in that rumbling brogue. His eyes closed and his fists clenched and Sansa saw him break. His Adam’s apple rose and fell, shoulders folding like thin, worn parchment, and his hands pulled Daenerys’ limp body in closer. He never cried, but that muscle in his jaw clenched tight and relaxed. His chest caved and he softly swayed, like they were dancing for the last time. 

Sansa stared at him best she could through her tears.

The dragon howled again, this time angrier and louder and imminent.

“I know,” she never cared for the woman, but she _knew_ _,_ “but she’s gone. She’s not in there. We have to go now.”

She reached for him, fumbling for his hand. It was cold and still clenched in a tight fist, gripping onto the fine material of Daenerys’ cloak. Sansa wriggled one finger inside and tugged.

His eyes flashed with anger and in them, Sansa could see the dim shimmer of barely restrained tears.

She stood and tugged harder, begging him to come with her, to forgive her, to be with her.  

“Please,” her throat burned and she choked on dust and ash and tears, “For me.”

Finally, he rose and isn’t that fair?

After-all, it was all for him.

 

 

“Please,” She’s begging again, sliding her arms up his body, entwining around his neck. She rests her forehead against his, hot and sticky, and pants against his open mouth, “Please, Jon.”

She doesn’t know what she’s begging for, but he gives it to her all the same.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he buries his face in her neck and growls against the heated skin. Still, his hips snap faster, his cock hitting the perfect spot inside her.

Sansa arches her back, legs tightening around his waist.

He takes advantage of her head tilt, mouth latching onto her stretched out neck. He plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her skin, finally sucking at her collarbone.

“You’d never hurt me,” she pants and of all the things she’s not sure of anymore, she’s sure of this.

Her head tips forward again and she captures his mouth in a fiery kiss.

He sighs against her and she takes advantage, running her tongue along his bottom lip and coaxing them open until she can lick inside the hot cavern of his mouth. Their tongues entwine, fighting for dominance, fighting to control something that’s never been theirs to control.

“Harder,” she pants against his mouth when they break away and her hands travel to his behind, fingers digging into the flesh and drawing him deeper inside her, “Fuck me harder.”

His hips snap forward involuntarily and he groans again.

“I can’t hurt you,” he rephrases this time, voice desperate, and Sansa reads the subtext behind his words.

I can’t hurt you _like he did._

I can’t hurt you _like I hurt her._

But he’s not Ramsay and she’s not Daenerys.

She wants to show him this; she wants him to know.

“No, you can’t,” she agrees but the words mean something different and she cups his face in her hands, “Jon, you can’t ever hurt me.”

His pupils are blown to black and he still looks unsure, lost. She comforts him the only way she knows how, opening her legs wider, pulling him deeper inside, and planting soft kisses on the underside of his jaw.

She tastes stubble and dirt and tears – his or hers, she’s not sure – and a surge of love overwhelms her.

Maybe Jon feels it too because he’s throwing her a strange look, one she’s never seen before, before he’s pulling out of her. She winces, frowning at the emptiness, and she’s about to protest when he suddenly starts to move down her body.

“Jon, what are you—”

The words die on her tongue when he spreads her legs with strong hands and puts his mouth on her.

She bucks against him, a gasp of surprise catching in her throat.

The pleasure is unlike anything she’s ever felt before. Then again, she’s never felt pleasure at all with anyone but him.

He starts off slowly, tongue hot and wet and flat against her. Lust snaps at her heels, stirring her whole body, from her head to her toes. She writhes against him, the feeling exhilarating and foreign and strange, all at the same time.

“Relax,” He hums against her heated flesh, the vibration of his low voice thrilling her further, “Let me take care of you.”

He’s always taken care of her.

He glances up at her, pupils blown to black, and she fights back a moan at the fiery eye contact. There’s no room for shame, for embarrassment, and as he spreads her legs wider, his hands seem to try to undo everything Ramsay has done.

There’s no room for Ramsay here. No room for the memory of his violent touches, his slaps and bites and bruises. Jon will protect her. Jon will keep her safe.

“Jon,” she practically sobs his name, arching her back. His hands pin her hips down, keeping her steady, as his mouth never unlatches from her. Her fingers tangle in his curls, pushing him away and pulling him closer at the same time. He seems to know what she wants, reads her like a book, and his unbearably talented tongue dips inside her.

He licks a hot stripe, his teeth capturing the hard little bundle of nerves between her thighs. He buries himself between her thighs, eating messily, the sounds crude and sensual, serving only to stoke her desire.

When his fingers join his mouth, two slipping inside her, she bucks against him and her thighs instinctively close around his head. He gently pulls them open again, his licks and sucks merciless.

“That’s it, sweet thing,” he murmurs against her flesh, dark eyes flickering up to meet her gaze, “Come for me.”

Like a dog desperate for his attention, she peaks at his command. A strangled sob rips from her throat, liquid hot pleasure scorching through her veins and eclipsing anything she ever _thought_ was pleasure in the past.

Through the haze, she registers him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he’s _there_ again, on top of her, with her.

He kisses her and she tastes herself on his tongue.

It’s hopelessly erotic and her hand darts to his cock, straining hard against her sticky thigh. He bows his head, capturing his bottom lip between his teeth as she strokes it.

“Sansa,” he murmurs her name against her lips. _Gods_ , his voice. She’s always loved his voice. She loves hearing him say her name even more.

“Inside me,” she whimpers, pulling him in, “I need you inside me.”

He pushes inside her again. She holds onto him and he holds on right back. She’s still buzzing, still sensitive, but she doesn’t want to stop. She doesn’t want him to walk away from this, to question it or doubt it or try to rationalise it.

The gods know, it was hard enough the first time. When they had finally fallen together, tired of fighting it, their bodies broken and aching and laced with so much pain.

He’d been hesitant, still a part of the old Jon left – honourable, noble, strong. _That_ Jon would never touch his cousin.

But he's different now. Tougher. Rougher around the edges.

Haunted by the ghosts of all the people she’s loved and lost, she’s different too.

She bucks her hips and begs him to go faster, trying to generate enough heat, enough energy, for all the people they’ve lost.

Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, Dany, there are so very many. The room seems to buzz, coming alive, and she feels their ghosts lingering here, telling them to live. Live long and happy lives for them. 

She wants to give him what he wants, what he needs. She wants him to slip inside her and know what it feels like to make love to the woman he loves, one last time. She wants him to twine her hair around his fingers and see ice blonde. She wants him to kiss slightly fuller lips, look into eyes a different shade of blue. For his hands to trail over a rounder jaw, a smaller, more petite frame.

But she can’t be that for him. She’ll never be Daenerys. She’s a different Queen altogether and this will have to be enough.

The pressure’s building now, that heat in the pit of her belly, and she looks to him for grounding. He’s all animal now, all wolf, and his hips pound harder. The fingers of one hand dig into the flesh of her slim waist while the other entwines with hers, resting by her head.

He kisses her, soft and gentle, nothing like the hot, passionate bucking of his hips below. He’s never been a man of many words, and the kiss seems to convey everything he can’t bring himself to say.

She digs her nails into the lean muscles in his back, carving moon-shaped crescents into his taut skin.

Finally, his cock finds the perfect spot, hammering against it again and again until white hot pleasure begins to spark up her body.

He seems to know, because he takes this moment to whisper against her mouth.

“I love you,” he rasps, honest and sweet and broken.

Sansa’s back arches. She’s never heard those words before and they tip her over the edge.

She holds him as he breaks apart after her, spilling hot and warm inside her.

“I’ve always loved you,” she finally whispers back. He buries his face in her neck and she swears she feels wetness there.

 _You’ve always been a Stark,_ the words seem to say. _You’ve always been enough._

She doesn’t know if it’s romantic love, if they love each other the way he and Dany did, or Robb and Talisa, or Mother and Father. But there’s a connection there, a burning under the skin, built upon mutual respect and shared histories.  

She holds him as the moon shines through the window, casting ominous shadows up the walls.

Soon, they’ll come for him. Greyworm and the others, looking for blood, seeking justice for their fallen Queen.

But for now, this is all she’s concerned about. This is enough.

They’re here, they’re together, and they’re safe.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on the next chapter of Run to You, but this just came out of me in a couple of hours and had to post it! It's angsty shit but... that's me, I guess🤷🏼♀️


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